


Ain't My Fault

by Dreams2Paper11



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: M/M, Some consent issues, but like, obligatory sex-pollen fic, that's with all sex-pollen fics, this is so indulgent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-15 22:50:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13041141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dreams2Paper11/pseuds/Dreams2Paper11
Summary: Dick is tasked with infiltrating a shipment of a new drug called Honeypot.Too bad their intel hadn’t known that Deathstroke, Dick’s archenemy and occasional fuck-on-the-side, extra mayo and ketchup please, had been hired to make sure the shipment went through safely.So that was just great.





	Ain't My Fault

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wantstobelieve](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wantstobelieve/gifts).



> I'm so tired, but, you guessed it, this is a gift for [wantstobelieve](http://wantstobelieve.tumblr.com/), who had a crappy week. Sorry about that. Here's some porn to cheer you up.
> 
> I'll probably clean this up tomorrow, when I have time. And functioning brain cells.
> 
> Warnings: Potential consent issues. Dick and Slade are implied to have been in a kind of fuck-buddy relationship, but sex pollen doesn't exactly ask for your opinion, and Slade's not really a nice man.

 

The shipment was due to leave the port at 12:15 am, which was why Dick was perched on a rooftop two blocks away, shivering his ass off in his Nightwing suit. It was 11:35 pm. He ran himself through the details once again:

Silas Mercer, or, as he preferred to be known, _Marrow,_ was an up-and-coming Bludhaven gangster lord eager to grab a slice of the city’s crime pie. He’d first come onto the scene nine months ago, handling small operations and setting up shop on the eastside coast. It started with drugs—cocaine, heroin, meth, and ecstacy mainly—then, when Marrow had gathered enough financial income and employees, it moved into human trafficking. Over 50 missing people to date, mostly women and girls but some boys, were suspected to have disappeared into the trafficking.

Dick believed the number to actually be quite higher.

One of the many things that had accelerated Marrow’s business was rumored to be some new type of date-rape drug in aerosol form. Reported effects included increased sensitivity of the senses, particularly tactile ones, memory blanks, elevated temperatures, and induced arousal and suggestibility. They were calling it “honeypot” on the streets. Already, it was spreading into Gotham and other neighboring cities where it was making waves.

The BPD had been doing its best to follow the startlingly-quick growth of what looked to be the toddler stages of a blossoming criminal empire, but efforts had been hindered by several corrupt officers—and one of them was Dick Grayson’s superior, which meant that going about things the legal, no-spandex way was next to impossible.

...Which was why he and Batman were double-teaming this case, albeit from _very_ separate ends. Things between them had been relatively okay for a while, and Dick was just starting to think that maybe it was time to take a week off and spend it at the manor for some well-deserved R &R, but then he and Bruce got into an explosive fight (for the _fiftieth_ time) about Dick’s job as a police officer, and guns, and, well, glacier caps were warmer than their current relationship.

Regardless, hurt feelings and a wounded pride would _never_ come before The Mission for Batman. So it had been an icy past few weeks while they coordinated, through a combination of Alfred and painfully-succinct phone calls, the mission details.

Tonight, Dick was supposed to be a one-man infiltration squad for what was rumored to be one of Marrow’s biggest outgoing shipments of the year. Initially, Batman had argued for him to pair up with Red Robin, which normally would have been a very agreeable idea, except that it was _Batman’s,_ so Dick had vetoed it immediately.

According to their source, the shipment would be stopping in one of Gotham’s ports to offload some of its wares, and then sail on to several other destinations in the neighboring smaller cities. The one major problem being, they weren’t sure which port its initial stop would be out of the hundred active ones and fifty-something closed ones that Gotham offered.

Dick was beginning to regret turning down some company. A sixth sense he’d developed over his crimefighting years was prickling at the back of his head, warning that all was not quite right. Something was going to go wrong, he just knew it, and he didn’t have any backup inside two hours, all directions.

If everything did go to plan, the shipment wouldn’t make it past the first stop. Safely tucked away in the cargo boat, Dick would keep an eye on the situation and broadcast his location, which would allow Alfred, manning the Batcomputer, to track his signal and figure out which port was its beginning destination… and once that was figured out, Batman and Red Robin would be waiting with gauntleted-arms and closed fists for the criminals to arrive.

Dick checked the time again. It was 11:45 pm. Go-time. He stretched in one fluid, limber movement, warming his blood up from the sitting position. A Nightwing-Criminal-Batman sandwich with Red Robin dressing.

What could go wrong?

* * *

 

To cut a long, winding story (full of calculating villainy, betrayal, and unexpected trick-rooms in the warehouse that trapped an occupant inside and filled with gaseous chemicals) short in the interest of time and brevity, Very Much went wrong.

 

* * *

 

Oh, and their intel hadn’t known that _fucking_ Deathstroke, Dick’s archenemy and occasional fuck-on-the-side, extra mayo and ketchup please, had been hired to make sure the shipment went through safely.

So that was just _great._

 

* * *

 

Slow, muggy waves of heat rolled under his skin, full-body sensations, and every time they passed his groin, he felt himself throb. The little hairs on his body were standing on end, quivering with sensation. Even the air-conditioned breeze rolling over his face made him sigh in bliss.

Everything was just… _more._ The colors of the environment, the sensations of heat and cold, tactile senses, even his _emotions_ were magnified—he felt so happy, so relaxed and utterly sensual.

The angry man— _Marrow,_ his brain whispered feebly—had watched triumphantly as his goons dragged Dick from the gas chamber and threw him over the metal railing to the warehouse floor. It wasn’t a steep drop, and Dick’s muscles were rubbery anyway, so it didn’t hurt very much, but _still._ Rude.

Then there was some cheap _I-am-villain, hear-me-roar_ talk, punctuated by Marrow’s disgustingly lecherous commentary and sticky hands on Dick’s face, neck, inner thighs. He wasn’t really paying attention at this point; the gas (most likely honeypot, and this was seriously so, _so_ bad, _focus_ , Dick!) seemed to have seeped into his skin, coating his throat and lungs. He smelled it every time he breathed in.

In fact, it smelled… good? Like, like warm Sunday afternoons and the vanilla-and-brown sugar-scent of Alfred’s chocolate-chip cookies. Dick inhaled again, just to test it. Yeah, chocolate-chip cookies. Mmm.

Marrow seemed to have finished up his speech. _Oops, missed it,_ Dick thought. _That’s a failing grade for this semester, I’ll have to retake the class._ Oh, Marrow was finally exiting the room and taking his guards along with him, so it was okay to unwind and maybe slide all the way down to the floor like a dropped curtain. Yeah, that was a good plan. He could just lie in wait here for Marrow to come back, and then he would get the drop on him. Marrow would never see it coming.

Dimly, he realized that he was rubbing his cheek, catlike, against the gritty warehouse floor, just to feel the mini-fireworks of sensation exploding across his skin. His hips were also moving lazily, following the rhythm of the warmth blooming through his body. When did _that_ start?

He felt so wonderful. Someone should be here with him, to share in this. Then they could both feel good together, _mm,_ Dick would make it _so_ good for them.

Them. Yes. Call them.

He went to reach for his communicator, but it seemed his brain was in the process of shutting-down—he’d meant to grab his communicator from his belt, but his hand decided independently that it was absolutely _imperative_ to rub slow paths over his chest, massaging gently on its way down, and then Dick got distracted by the feeling and forgot his original intention until minutes later when his fingers accidentally smoothed over the bump of the communicator at his waistline. He closed his fist around it loosely, struggling to think.

Call someone. Yes, he should call someone, because he needed help. The warmth in his body felt so good, but it was edging him towards something even better and it would feel so amazing to share it with someone.

But Dick loved so many people, it was difficult to choose who he wanted to be with. _All of them,_ his Id whined childishly. He wanted them all, wanted to be in the center of a group of bodies, very-possibly naked and writhing on a huge bed somewhere, but it would be close to impossible to get everyone together on such short notice. Or convince them to participate in an orgy in the first place.

Back to square one, then. Who was he supposed to call, again?

Kori! Kori was warm too, almost as warm as Dick felt right now, and they’d had so much fun together and he still loved her, always would, even though they’d broken up. He thought about showering with her, licking paths of water off her collarbone and following them down, down, to even wetter places. Another wave of delicious heat passed through him, even stronger this time, and Dick moaned, letting the noise reach full-throttle, imagining someone there to hear it, to be aroused by it.

Yes, he should call Kori. He began thumbing through his contacts while his other hand began tracing patterns over the dip of his left hipbone. There was a goofy smile on his face, he could feel the stretch of the muscles, but he couldn’t stop it, nor did he want to. It had been so long since he’d had sex with Kori—or sex with anyone. It was going to feel so good.

“Well, isn’t this a sight for sore eyes.”

 _I know that voice!_ —screamed Dick’s brain.

 _I know that voice!—_ screamed Dick’s cock, very enthusiastically.

He flipped himself over to see properly, turning the movement into something as liquid and graceful as water running over stones, because it seemed as good a time as any, perhaps even better, to turn on the charm. When he was on his knees, he arched himself back, forming an upright _L_ shape, purposely presenting his torso and the flexed shape of his quad muscles, the pop of tendons in his neck. He looked good and he knew it, was counting on it.

Deathstroke was leaned against the stack of crates, tracing idle circles in the air with the tip of his Promethium sword. Dick devoured the image hungrily, already thinking— _remembering_ , rather—being under that thick, solid body, how good it had felt. How long it had been since he last felt it.

“Damn, kid, they’ve got you in a bad way,” Slade said, and Dick shivered at the timbre of his words, feeling the sounds like an actual brush against his skin.

“Honeypot gas,” Dick managed to say, marveling at his own voice, barely recognizing it—he usually only sounded so throaty, so turned on, when he was in the middle of sex; right now, he surprised and even aroused himself a little by how low and hungry the words came out. “Some kind of—aphrodisiac,” he finished slowly, with difficulty, because he kept getting preoccupied with the electric feel of his own tongue tracing his mouth’s nooks and crannies.

Slade was still watching him, and Dick moaned deliberately, couldn’t stop himself; It was instinctive, reacting to the sight of that powerful figure, wanting to be showy, erotic, and he basked in the smugness of knowing that his message was being _very_ well-received; Slade liked him 5 days out of 7, and wanted to fuck him all the time, and Dick had never been so glad to know it.

Somewhere in the distance, a foghorn. Clanking, steam engines. The warehouse vibrated, and Dick _felt the vibrations,_ they were so shockingly pleasurable that his mouth dropped open.

“I can see that,” Slade said, nodding his chin, and Dick realized he had begun a full-body series of small undulations, flexing himself from head to toe because it felt so lovely to squeeze and relax his muscles, and once he started he couldn’t stop. He was nearly humping the air now, but it didn’t feel humiliating or strange, or even unusual; it just felt so, so warm, and Dick felt powerful, so effortlessly sexual doing it because he knew exactly where Slade’s eyes were wandering.

 _“Yes—”_ Dick hissed. “You—can you— _want—_ ”

“Oh,” Slade said, his voice sliding down the register, “I _want_.”

Dick shuddered joyfully at the playful promise in his words. It felt so nice to be wanted.

Then Slade pushed himself off the crates and began approaching. “You know, the shipment is going out right now,” he probed curiously, slow to put his sword away like he thought Dick was interested in doing anything other than rubbing himself off against the nearest human.

“Don’t care,” Dick murmured—Slade was nearly in range now, and he could feel himself trembling in anticipation. He was actually salivating.

“Funnily enough, I got that impression.” Slade stopped when he was standing just inside a meter from Dick, not lifting a hand to touch him, not doing anything other than looking down through his mask. “When my employer asked me to… _take care_ of you, I doubt this is what he meant.”

Dick leaned forward, resting his head against Slade’s hip. Slade’s words rolled right off him like water on a duck’s feathers.

His armor was cool to the touch and it felt delightful to nuzzle. Equally delightful was the proximity of Slade’s groin. Dick shuffled forward another step on his knees so that he could breathe in right over that hot, musky place. “Want to suck you,” he said lewdly, turning his face to mouth the words over the suit. He felt _very_ sexual, and it was good knowing that it had an effect, one that he visualized under the groin-piece shielding his objective.

“In the middle of a criminal’s base of operations?” Slade asked, amused, and finally carded his fingers through Dick’s hair, which set off all _kinds_ of lightning-burst tactile feelings. Dick’s mouth dropped further open and he bent his neck so that the caught strands would pull taut. Icy pinpricks skittered up and down his scalp and he shuddered.

“ _Unh—_ here, outside, in your car—I don’t care—” his fingers were scrabbling at the armor’s buckles now, doing his best to yank them off. “Just—”

Slade laughed, and it wasn’t particularly kind, but it was warm and bright, just like how Dick felt. “All right, kid, all right. But don’t say I didn’t warn you in the morning.”

He moved as though to step away, and Dick couldn’t stand it anymore, he was _burning up_ —

In one fluid movement, he surged upwards, plowing his shoulder into Slade’s chest and yanking at the backs of his knees. Totally swept off his feet, Slade landed roughly on his back, with Dick sitting on his chest, already searching the figure underneath him for any areas of displayed skin.

Damn him, there were none. Slade’s bodysuit covered any gaps between the armor pieces.

Dick’s head felt floaty and heavy at the same time, so he couldn’t quite put the frustration to words, but he let out an inarticulate cry to express his vexation and began a hard rocking motion, grinding down determinedly. But the cup protecting his groin prevented the full feeling from making itself known and he soon slowed to a stop, quivering in confused irritation.

Slade had laid out his hands palm-up beside his head and was doing nothing to inhibit or help his efforts. “Nightwing,” he said slowly, enunciating with deliberate clarity. “We are in one of your enemy’s warehouses. I need to disable the cameras and delete what video feed they’ve already gotten, unless you want to wake up tomorrow morning to blackmail.” he paused, then added, “We don’t even know if we’re alone right now. He could have sent one of his lieutenants back to make sure the job was done.”

An audience? Dick smiled sultrily, feeling himself twitch at the thought. He was so good at performing, he knew they’d enjoy it, too, he would be so good for them.

Slade was still talking, and Dick was trying to make an effort to understand, honestly, he was, but Slade’s armor felt so smooth and wonderful. He kept petting at it, smiling at the texture. It wasn’t as good as bare skin, but Dick was nothing if not creative. Then he fitted his hands underneath the pieces and began scraping hard, with his gloved nails, the way he knew Slade liked.

When Slade gasped, just barely audible, Dick knew he had him. “Later,” he promised. “Delete it later. Just—take your clothes off, _now.”_ He leaned down and bit, _hard,_ over that tempting tendon in the mercenary’s neck. His teeth couldn’t penetrate the reinforced bodysuit, of course, but it was the thought that counted.

Now it was Slade who made a noise of frustration. He flexed himself upright again, bracing Dick’s waist so that he wouldn’t fall off, which wasn’t really a worry at this point—Dick had adhered every part of himself to the older man like a sex-stupid barnacle.

“How far is your apartment from here?” he snarled, palming aggressively at Dick’s backside.

“Fi-fifteen minutes,” Dick gasped, rocking back into the movements. He lowered himself to put his lips right next to Slade’s ear and said, in a very intentional and only slightly-exaggerated moan: “I really, _really_ want you to fuck me—no one’s fucked me in so long, I’ll be so good, I promise.” It might have sounded corny, if not for the way every muscle of his body was quivering with the aching truth of it.

Slade deleted the video footage, fetched his gear, and had him bundled him up over one shoulder and thrown into the passenger seat of his car in less than three minutes.

* * *

 

The drive itself was… interesting.

Dick kept tossing his head back and forth, digging it into the headrest behind him as he squirmed in pleasure. The gentle warmth had evolved into what felt like phantom hands all over him, touching and tweaking and pressing unrelentingly. Every part of him throbbed, from his toes to the ends of his hair. Inside the closed and quiet space of the vehicle, his noises seemed far louder than they had in the warehouse.

Slade’s hands were clenched around the wheel and he drove with the same kind of determined focus only first-time drivers taking their license test had.

“I think this could legally count as distracted driving,” Slade said, sparing a single glance to the passenger side. Dick watched his throat bob through half-lidded eyes.

“I’ll arrest you later,” he promised slyly, and deactivated his suit’s defenses. With intentional slowness, he began inching the hidden zipper down his chest, parting it to reveal sweat-gleaming, bronzed skin.

“Dick,” Slade said warningly, “it’s going to hurt you a lot more than me if we crash.”

Dick bit his gloves off with his teeth and held them clenched in his mouth. “Then stay on the road,” he muttered, though it came out muffled by the fabric. Then he put his naked hands on his naked skin and stars _exploded_ in his vision. There were no words to describe it. Dick had never done any kinds of party drugs, but he could only imagine this was what they felt like; touch seemed to be more than touch, it seemed connected to color and temperature as well and just, _more._

 _Merciful God, I’m having an out-of-body experience,_ he thought deliriously to himself, stroking and petting his neck and down the valley between his pecs. His splayed fingers caught over one of his peaked, angry-red nipples and his body jumped like he’d touched a live wire. His nipples could be sensitive, but never to this degree. He did it again, whimpering in mindless ecstasy, hips jerking.

“So warm,” he gasped thickly, spitting out the gloves. “Touch me, Slade, I need you to touch me—”

“Both hands on the wheel, 10 and 2,” Slade answered, sounding very strained.

 _“Nngh!”_ Dick pounded his head into the seat, rippling. He couldn’t help it anymore; one hand flew downwards, prising apart the zipper even further to bare his waist and below. It was impractical to wear boxers or briefs under the skintight Nightwing suit, so the only thing left in his way was the codpiece/jockstrap.

… To be specific, the jockstrap decorated in tiny, bug-eyed cartoon birds over the crotch. Dick had received it from Babs one year when they were still dating. She’d thought it was the funniest thing ever, said he looked sexy in it. So he’d kept it. And since today was laundry day, it was the only one he’d had left to wear under the suit.

“Christ,” Slade said. “I can’t believe I’m attracted to a buffoon. If I shot you right now, I’d be doing the world’s dating pool a service.”

Dick grinned hazily. Everything about this was hopelessly funny and unbearably stimulating. “But then you wouldn’t get to fuck me,” he pointed out helpfully. “Do you mind if I just…?” he unbuckled his jockstrap and put his hand on his cock, which was already flushed a bright red, and began pumping. The wet sounds were obscene, Slade’s eye on him nearly more-so.

Dick was never any good at poetry, but he’d have to learn—the feeling of his naked hand on his dick, gliding through trails of pre-cum, deserved to have Epics written in praise.

“Oh, _fuck,”_ he said in honest surprise, teeth biting into his lip as he tripped right into an orgasm.

“Did you just— _Christ_ ,” Slade repeated, eye flicking between him and the road, and suddenly the car whipped sideways, screeching into a parking slot. He unbuckled himself and aggressively stalked out of the car. Dick, still reeling from his climax, lay there silently, his cock loosely cradled in his hand. He was still, unbelievably, hard, and the incoming tide of warmth under his skin promised more.

Suddenly, his car door flew open, and Dick sagged languidly into Slade’s arms, mute with sensation.

“Swear to God, I’m gonna fuck you ‘til you _cry,”_ Slade snarled in his ear as he manhandled him all the way up the steps to his apartment. It was 3am, and the cars lining both sides of the street were dark and empty; besides, Dick owned the building and had bugs in each streetcam. It was still so, _so_ risky—he thought about old Mrs. Brown in the opposing complex looking out her window in her robe and curlers and seeing Deathstroke drag a half-naked Nightwing into the apartment, and couldn’t stop himself from giggling.

He wrapped his legs around Slade’s waist and locked his ankles together, using the grip as leverage to grind against his chest. That orgasm had been spectacular, probably the best he’d ever had, and he was eager for a repeat performance.

“Don’t break my locks,” he said as they crested the steps to the second floor apartments. Slade was carrying him like he weighed nothing, and it was _so_ sexy. Dick wanted nothing more than to sink to the floor and suck his cock in reward for being so sexy.

“You should have thought about that before being such a fucking tease,” Slade said as they came up the third flight to room 3A.

“Seriously,” Dick grunted, smacking that broad chest and then thinking, _Ooh, muscle,_ and rubbing appreciatively. “I have—security measures.”

“I know,” Slade said, a touch smugly. “I’ve broken them many times before.” He pinned Dick to his door and pulled back enough to engage the hidden panel in the wall, expertly disengaging the locks.

“What the fuck—how do you know my password?” Dick demanded in bafflement, pushing himself up to stare hotly into Slade’s eye, even as he kept up his dirty grind.

“Sweetie-Wheaties,” Slade said, straight-faced. “I’ve seen your pantry; it’s not that difficult to guess.”

Normally, this was the perfect time to say a clever quip.

There was nothing in his brain but delicious, enveloping warmth, and _skin,_ and _yesyestouchmeplease._

“What the fuck,” Dick repeated, unable to think of anything else to say.

The door opened inwards and Dick would have fallen backwards in surprise had Slade not caught him behind his shoulder blades. He took three steps into the apartment, then kicked the door shut behind them and dumped Dick to the floor.

“Ow,” Dick said, though it hadn’t hurt, and stretched to rub the naked skin of his back into the fluffy carpet. He _knew_ the fleecy rug had been a good purchase, even if he had to concede its remarkable reluctance to give up blood-stains. _Screw you, Bruce, I can make my own interior-decorating decisions,_ and all that.

Standing above him, Slade was breathing heavily and ripping pieces of body armor off like it was a competition. Dick stretched himself out, stroking his cock as he watched the show through lidded eyes. The carpet fibres felt like a hundred tiny caresses against his skin and he squirmed joyfully, whimpering. It felt so good that he began petting it with his free hand, just to chase the sparks of sensation. Luxurious moans dribbled from his parted lips.

“Shall I leave you two alone?” Slade snarked, watching him with avarice.

Dick smiled, big and slow and sweet, and raised himself up on his elbows. “Feel free to join us,” he invited, when the last bit of armor had hit the floor and Slade was unzipping his bodysuit layer. “Wanna suck you off like I promised.”

Slade groaned and dropped to his knees over him. His cock jutted out, only inches away from Dick’s mouth. He licked his lips and swallowed, oddly mesmerized by the bob of that thick, glistening head. He could distinctly remember how it felt splitting him open and pushing deep inside, though it had been months since he’d last felt it. Now that it was here, though, and bobbing so prettily in front of him… he wanted it in his mouth, rubbing against his face and lips, pressing inside him, anywhere and everywhere. Even the smell of it, so close, was heady.

“Wanted this,” he murmured raggedly. “Wanted to—blow you in the car.” Heat throbbed through him; the little bit of coherent thought he’d managed to scrape together finally dispersed. He leaned forward and took the head into his mouth.

Slade hissed, his hips leaping forward.

It was a little-known fact that Dick barely had a gag reflex; it was no trouble at all to open his throat and accommodate that thick length. Slade was so turned on, Dick could taste his strong heartbeat pulsing through the sheer skin of his cock. His pre-cum was salty and normally Dick didn’t really care for the taste, but right now, it was hitting him somewhere deep and physical and he couldn’t get enough. He moaned, letting the vibrations travel strongly, and Slade cursed.

All the nerves endings in his mouth were signaling their bliss and his tongue seemed to have a mind of its own—curling, dipping, massaging the veiny underside of his cock with fervor. When Slade pulled back to prepare for his next thrust, it rubbed hard at the slit, lapping up beads of pre-cum.

“Shit, kid—you’re so good at this—fuck, look at your _lips_ ,” Slade panted, and Dick pushed his head into the caress that followed. Slade’s palm and fingers were callused from labor, and the hard texture felt _divine_ brushing against the curve of his cheekbone—so sensitized, it was almost like he could feel the individual ridges of his fingerprints. Two of those wonderful fingers slipped downwards, pressing against the tight _o_ of Dick’s mouth, rubbing lewdly at the seal of suction. His cock dipped in, out, in, out, and Dick… _went away_ , for a while, just sinking into the sea of pleasure, enjoying how full his mouth was and how good those fingers tracing his lips felt.

He roused himself a little when Slade patted his cheek. “Can you swallow for me, pretty boy? I’d really like that.”

 _Yes, yes, yes,_ Dick babbled happily to himself. _Feels so good, want to make you feel good, yes…_

Slade pushed deep again and Dick swallowed around him with ease.

 _“Ah—shit—”_ Slade gasped explosively, and Dick would have smiled if he weren’t concentrating so much. It was so difficult to make Slade moan because he always did his best to be quiet, always focused on making Dick fall apart at the seams and then lorded over it smugly.

Slade lowered a hand from Dick’s hair to his throat, rubbing at the curve of it as though feeling for his cock there. When he _squeezed_ and started up a series of tight, powerful thrusts, Dick saw stars. Slade’s balls were slapping against his chin with every jerk, and it might have been humiliating if Dick wasn’t drooling ecstatically through the whole thing.

“Fuck, fuck, that’s good,” Slade managed, and rubbed his fingers up and down his throat, still squeezing.

Dick had no warning; the clamoring nerve signals in his body suddenly seemed to hijack his pleasure centers all at once, and everything went bright and colorful and warm—and, rocking his hips, Dick sucked hard on Slade’s cock and felt himself come again, untouched, helpless to stop it as it spurted wildly up his own chest and over the half-discarded flaps of the Nightwing suit. He shook intensely when it lasted far beyond normal, rolling back and forth along his nerves like a wave.

 _“Fuck!”_ Slade swore with feeling as he dragged Dick off by his hair. He held himself tightly at the base to stave off an orgasm, even though Dick kept his mouth open and his tongue stuck out, wanting to feel the splash of it over his cheeks, lips, eyes, on his tongue, and was disappointed when it didn’t come.

The second orgasm had taken with it any remaining IQ points he had left. Dick was still _impossibly_ hard, even when the aftershocks finally faded back into the warmth. Everything below the waist throbbed incessantly and he knew his hole was opening and closing around nothing at all.

While Slade talked himself down from the edge, Dick collapsed onto the rug, mindlessly squirming out of the rest of the costume and kicking it to the side. It was almost a torment, how good the carpet felt on the rest of his naked body and he writhed helplessly, flipping over to grind his aching cock against it. Tears blurred his vision and he knew he was babbling a litany of _“Ahn, ahn,”_ over and over.

Heavy, solid warmth pressed itself along his body, head to toe, and Dick tossed his head, nearly sobbing with how _good_ it felt.

“Kid, you with me?” a voice panted wetly in his ear. Beard hairs brushed over the shell of his ear and Dick keened.

“Get in, get in me, _now,_ ” he snarled, reaching back to scrabble at the man’s general waist-area.

“We need lube,” Slade scolded, arching his body like a cat so that Dick couldn’t reach him. It was so unfair, Dick wanted him so badly.

He groaned in frustration. “Don’t need it, just—please—”

“Unless you want me to rip you a new one,” Slade snapped, and _ooh,_ was he angry or turned on or both? Either way, it made Dick pulse with excitement. “We need _lube_.”

Dick pushed himself up just enough to press back against the body bracing his, grinding against the hot, hard warmth he found there. “In—bedside table—”

“I’ll be right back,” Slade said, and he sounded as though he was trying to juggle being firm, reassuring, angry, and explosively-aroused all at once. He lifted himself off the younger man and went in search of the bedroom.

Being alone _sucked_ , Dick decided, and not even in the fun way. He took up humping the floor again, clenching the carpet with one hand while the other found itself pulling helplessly at his hair. “ _Ah, ah, ah.”_

So lost in his pleasure, he didn’t even register Slade’s return until he felt slick fingers running down his crease. They scissored, pushing his cheeks apart, and cold lube poured directly over his crack and ran down his hole, down his balls, wetting him everywhere. He gasped.

“How’s this?” Slade whispered huskily. His fingers ran up and down, skating through the frankly excessive trails of lube. Dick whined needily and canted his hips up, trying to guide them where he wanted them, needed them.

“Damn, kid. Gonna be thinking about this for months.”

“Slade—come on—” Dick sobbed when they slid in tantalizing circles around his outer ring.

“I think I want to take my time,” Slade said consideringly, one big thumb settling square over his hole and rolling from side to side. "Not often a man gets to see Nightwing like this." Dick could feel himself rippling around it, doing his utmost best to suck him inside.

“Ugh!” he said, and kicked back savagely. His foot caught Slade right in the chest and knocked him away a few paces.

“What the hell—” Slade started up, and then went dead-silent when Dick rolled over and crooked two of his own fingers straight inside. His eyes rolled up and he moaned shamelessly, setting up a good hard pace. It should have hurt, but if there was any pain, he couldn’t feel it—only that unbridled sense of heat and urgency and pleasure. His insides were slick with lube and silky, gripping onto his fingers like a glove. He couldn’t reach his prostate from this angle, but it still felt like every jab of his fingertips was hitting the jackpot.

“Do it—myself—” he grunted petulantly, then added another finger. _“Nnnn!”_

“I’ve never been so glad to have a photographic memory,” Slade said fervently. He grabbed Dick’s bent wrist and tugged his fingers from his fluttering hole. Dick snarled, fighting it, but Slade’s strength was much greater than his, and his arm didn’t even tremble with tension as he forced him back.

“Yeah, yeah, fast and hard, message received,” he said, rolling his eye, and then yanked Dick’s lower half up onto his knees so that his waist was elevated above his head. Three of his fingers slid in without any fanfare, and Dick groaned salaciously, anger melting away in an instant. Slade’s fingers were thicker and longer than his, and from this angle, Slade _could_ actually reach his prostate.

“Mm,” he said. “ _Mmm.”_ He curled his legs over Slade’s shoulders and rubbed at his sinewy back with his heels.

“Yeah, you like that, don’t you?” Slade bared his teeth in a grin, giving it to him hard with one hand. The heel of his palm kept pressing against Dick’s balls with every thrust. “You like it on your back with my fingers jammed up your greedy hole?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Dick sighed, licking his lips. “Feels so good, Slade, don’t stop…”

“I won’t, I promise, I’ll stretch you sloppy and loose and then put you in my lap, how’s that sound?”

“Yes,” Dick agreed shamelessly, already thinking about how wonderful it was going to feel. He smiled hazily, eyes crinkling up in genuine pleasure. He was so, _so_ happy this was happening, because it felt like lately he’d been disappointing his family and friends at every turn. It felt so good to be wanted, to feel bare skin against his. It had been so long since he’d even hugged another person.

“Now, that’s a megawatt smile,” Slade said in amusement. “What’s swimming around in that fishbowl of yours?”

“Skin,” Dick said dreamily. “Feels good.” He made imperious grabby motions with his hand. “C’mere, want…want to feel you…”

“Only you.” Slade chuckled, shaking his head. “I’ve nearly got my whole hand up your ass and you still don’t think we’re close enough.”

Dick thumped his heel once, frowning. “C’mon…” his expression turned sly. With deliberate slowness, he tilted his head back to show off the bruises developing on his neck. His eyes went heavy-lidded, huge black pupils thinly circled by bright, stunning blue. _“Please,”_ he moaned erotically.

“You sly fucker,” Slade told him. “You should have done porn.”

Then he let himself drop down, crushing the breath out of Dick’s lungs. But the solid weight of him felt so good, so comforting, almost like a stress blanket. Dick petted his back, distracted by how it felt to run his nails through downy hairs and across warm, muscle-y skin.

“This good enough?” Slade asked, turning to speak in his ear. His breath was hot and puffed against Dick’s ear. And that was good, too.

It was only natural to turn his head to the side and capture Slade’s lips in a kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> The amount of times I typed "Salde" instead of Slade is insane.
> 
> There will be a part two. I'm just tired, let me sleep. And let me know what you think ;)


End file.
